Roman's Redemption: Roman: Book II (Roman's Trilogy) Page 4

  Nothing and I mean nothing prepared me for Heather barging into my life, infiltrating every nook and cranny, my every fear, as well as my outlook on life. Her love was my turning page, one that’s been in the balance for as long as I remember.

  I know now that she’s gone. She was truly my only savior, the only one who held the power to soothe my demons and bring solace to my sadism. It doesn’t do me any good now though, does it? Because like every other schmuck who pushes away the woman who holds their other half out of fear or stubbornness, I’m the schmuck who took it a thousand steps further.

  I’m the one man that didn’t merely push my other half away, I fucking killed mine.

  I would move heaven and hell to bring my mouse back, but it would be to no avail.

  My gaze scans around the sitting room as my thoughts continue bombarding me, it’s somewhere in these next few moments that I realize I don’t want to remain on this earth another day, another hour, another minute without Heather.

  And of course I have already come up with a fail-safe plan to cease one’s existence…well, mine. Andrew, Dolores, my parents, no one else knows about it, but I’m certain that’s the point of suicide.

  I know my daughter needs a parent. I know that as her last remaining parent, I should take the responsibility of being Ivy’s father and raise her. I know that’s what the world expects me to do.

  I know all of that, as I’m sure you do as well. But what you and I know that the rest of the world doesn’t—I can’t be a father. Hell, I couldn’t even be a husband, we ALL know how that ended.

  I have no business being a father, or raising a child, especially a baby girl.

  I hear her before I see her and quickly fasten my game face into place before looking up to see Dolores hovering over the threshold. After thirty seconds pass and she hasn’t spoken, my temper clips my words, “Is there something you need to say, or do you enjoy just being a fixture decorating the doorway?”

  When she glances up at me, her sad smile catches me off guard and for some reason unknown to me I momentarily regret my harsh words.

  “N-no, I’m, I apologize, Mr. Payne. I’ve just received a call from my sister, there’s been a family emergency and-and I hate to ask, primarily because it’s such short notice, but my family—“ I raise my hand halting her from saying anymore.

  “Dolores, don’t be preposterous, it isn’t something you could have prevented. Go take care of your family, let me know if there’s anything you need.” My words are meant to excuse her from occupying any more of my time. So I’m a tad bit annoyed when she remains rooted where she stands.

  I pour a tumbler of MaCallan’s and toss it back before filling it to the brim again and turning to face my intruder. “Did I stutter?”

  “No. N-no, sir, you didn’t stutter. I-I just, well Andrew isn’t here and I’m afraid I don’t have a backup sitter for miss Ivy.”

  Blinking dumbly at her, I move her words around in my mind until I’m able to comprehend them.

  Her eyes plead with mine as she wrings her hands nervously together, “I-I’m so sorry, Mr. Payne, if there was any way I could take Ivy with me I would, but,” She releases a defeated sigh, “I’m sorry, it just isn’t possible.”

  Still unable to manage more than blinking, I calmly wait for her to get to the part where she tells me she has a daughter, or a friend, fuck anyone, a mail man, or even a hairdresser who can assume care over Ivy while she’s gone. When it doesn’t,I do something I absolutely never recall doing before, I sputter. Yes, sputter.

  “Well what the fuck do you want me to do?”

  She shuffles back and forth from foot to foot, averting her gaze to the floor before answering, “I-I don’t know what to tell you, Mr. Payne, I’ll try to return as quickly as I can.”

  My eyebrows shoot up, “You’ll try? You’ll fucking try?”

  Dolores brings her eyes back up to mine, “Yes, sir. I’ll try. She’s your daughter, at some point you’re going to have to acknowledge her, accept that she’s your child. Roman? You understand this, right?”

  After I scrub my hand down my face I rake my fingers through my hair and my feet begin pacing the length of the room. On my fifth or sixth lap I bark over my shoulder, “Just, just do whatever the fuck you need to. Do I understand?” I ask incredulously as my feet stop their pacing less than an inch away from hers, “Do I understand what? That Ivy is my daughter? Yes, Dolores, I was there for both conception and delivery, I was fucking there. Pack and go take care of your family. I think I can handle a two year old.” I sputter. Yes. I sputter for the second time in my life within a window of only five minutes.

  As she hurriedly makes her exit muttering her apologies and ‘thank you’s’, I sink into the overstuffed oxford leather chair and allow my head to fall back, looking at the detailed carvings of each hand carved dark oak tile adorning the ceiling of the massive sitting area.

  Some where between a few minutes and a few hours pass, I honestly couldn’t say which measurement of time actually passes, my fingers dig into my eye sockets as I fill my lungs and slowly exhale.

  I hear her bare feet padding across the hardwood floors before I see the dark curls on the top of her head and when she rounds the corner of the couch, my eyes immediately find hers.

  Bloody. Fucking. Hell.

  I haven’t even truly looked at her since the day she was born. The angel standing before me is the epitome of goodness, just like her momma. Heather is in every line and feature of Ivy’s face, clearly seen, even through her toddler features.

  I can’t fucking breathe.

  The heart in my chest seizes, before being clenched tight by some unknown vice, and if I didn’t know it was an impossibility, I would believe it was being squeezed dry of every drop of blood.

  And still…I can’t fucking breathe.

  With our cerulean blue gazes locked, I intently watch as each emotion tells it’s tale across Ivy’s face.

  Delighted excitement. Love and affection. Confusion. Panic. Fear. Recognition. Sadness. Anger. And the last, the one with most carnage left in its wake—Hate.

  Hate is the emotion to tear me to shreds from the inside out and I realize I don’t deserve the luxury of suicide, a swift execution to deliver me from evil.

  Less than a second after I’ve recognized the emotion currently residing on my daughter’s face, Ivy spins on her toes before sprinting towards the door, ink black curls bouncing down her back to below her waist.

  As the navy blue hem of her dress flips the air behind her before trailing through the door, I remain unmoved, frozen in place staring blankly at the spot she stood moments before.

  As the sound of her running bare feet echoes through the halls, a flicker, a flutter, a wings sweep through the air is the only evidence of light to ever ignite within my dark desolate soul.

  If it would have been a shade paler, my demons would have noticed and snuffed it’s flame before it had the chance to come to life.

  Abruptly standing, I storm from the room following the direction towards her rooms and after glancing from room to room, left and right I find her hunkered beside the bed in the last room on the left.

  And again, much like I did in the sitting room, when our eyes lock, I freeze in place.

  The only words I find suitable for the current circumstances surrounding us, I sloppily throw out into the air between us, “Ivy? Ivy?” When the realization dawns on me that this is the first direct human-to-human communication attempt between us, my voice thickens. “Sweetheart,” I cough, struggling to soften my voice before continuing, “Are you alright?”

  Her navy irises pool with tears before slipping from their corners and rolling down my daughter’s cheeks as she slightly shakes her head and nods at the same time. “No? You’re not okay? Or Yes? Which one, sweetie?” When I realize I’m towering over her, I squat down beside her and slide my back down the wall until I reach the floor and sit.

  Unprepared for the delicate sound, her soft voice sings thr
ough the air between us before striking my soul like lightening, “I’m otay. Sowie.” Her eyes watch her chubby fidgeting fingers for a few brief palpable seconds before shooting back and narrowing on mine.

  If wishes were bullets and hopes were blades, the look in her eyes would have riddled my heart with both until it was nothing more than paper mache. “I know I’m post to not go in dare and bodder you, I dust wahned my Nana.”

  I glance over at her, “Nana?” I ask as her forehead furrows, mimicking my confusion.

  “Yes, my daddy. Nana D. was post to kiss me ‘fore she left. But her’s didn’t.”

  In the most soothing voice I can muster, I smile at my daughter before whispering, “Nana D. had something come up she needed to take care of, but she’ll be back soon. How about you and I become more acquainted while we wait for her to get back?”

  She puckers her lips and stands, brushing her little hands down the front of her dress like I’ve watched Heather do a million times. She shakes her head and scoffs before turning her back to me and walking towards her closet. I hear her mumble a response but all I’m able to make out are a few words. “My daddy…telling me cwazy things. Silly daddy.”

  Chapter 7

  As I sat back and watched the tragedy of Mac’s life unfold from my spot perched in a corner of her mind, I couldn’t stop my eyes from constantly rolling for three hundred and sixty-five days.

  Question: Do you know what a shiv is? Okay, question two: Have you ever seen a shiv in action whilst a shanking ensued in your presence?

  That is all I did, from sun up to sun down. I did nothing but carve shiv after shiv, patiently waiting for the day Mac’s brittle mind finally snapped. I also memorized each blatantly left unlocked door and window on the first floor of Payne Manor. I memorized their locations as well as compulsively counted steps from room to room, room to unlocked window, and room to unlocked door.

  As I’m sure you have guessed, none of my efforts paid off, thanks to Sebastian and his ridiculous plans.

  The first six months I spent in this hell that Sebastian rules, I wasn’t allowed to leave my room unless I was being escorted to the dining room by his sister, Lizbeth. I tried to maintain control over my choice of clothing, however that too was stripped of me while we ate during my first month here and Lizbeth emptied every thread of my clothing from the two bureaus and walk-in closet. So when I say ‘stripped’ I mean it in the most literal definition. I either wore what he’d chosen, or nothing. And you can fucking bet your ass I ate sans his silk and lace he wished to keep me dressed in, like some goddamn porcelain doll for a whole month.

  When it dawned on me Sebastian never once looked below my chin, even with the girls on full display, I conceded the only person making an ass out of themselves, was me…the one with my ass also on full display. I started wearing his fucking preferred wardrobe with a few of my own improvements that mostly consisted of cutting the midriff off of every dress, and if the skirt was longer than mid thigh, it wasn’t for long.

  I took every piece of clothing and snipped it to tatters, Tarzan’s Jane would have appreciated my attire.

  This went on for well over a year, but six months ago Seb began loosening his leash. At first I was able to walk around only the rooms in the vicinity of mine, which thankfully the room across the hall was a library with an extensive collection of books on practically any and all subjects and genres. It may have looked like I was enjoying a series by V.C. Andrews, but if one were to open the cover, the pages of how to books and basic survival guides is what they’d find. Instead of Flower’s in the Attic, I was learning eagle-scout shit, from setting up camp and proper fire-making, to making tools and navigating by the sun and stars. I studied and brushed up on my hunting skills, learned what to use as traps to catch food, then how to prepare and preserve the meat as well as which plants to use as medicine.

  I spent my days over the last six months tirelessly scouring over every crumb of information and every atlas of California, Oregon, and Washington, as well as the states surrounding them.

  My nights? When I wasn’t meticulously counting my loot stolen during my days and placing them gently back into my Louis Vuitton escape bag, I was dealing with Sebastian and his very unwelcomed company.

  Sebastian first began coming to my room at night, he promised he wanted nothing more than to lie beside me and listen to me breathing while I slept. As far as I was concerned, if the sick fucker wanted to listen to me breathe, by all means, freak, whatever blows your skirt up. His ‘just listening’ soon evolved into just combing his fingers through my hair, still, I could give a fuck, keep your fingers and your dick away from any of my orifices, and I’ll continue to allow you to keep them.

  Now, about three weeks ago when I awoke to him grunting on top of me, trying to use his fingers to shove his semi flaccid cock inside my extremely dry vagina, he learned about the kitchen knife I’d confiscated and kept hidden beneath my pillow.

  I really wish it had been my left hand instead of my right pinned under his knee. You have no idea how much an inch can really fucking matter. An inch more to the right would have ended this chapter of hell I currently reside in.

  Instead of delivering Sebastian his demise and conquering my freedom, he was stitched and bandaged and dragging in chains and locks by the following evening.

  Now, don’t get me wrong, I like a little slap with my tickle every once in a while, but not with this sideline freak show.

  I was shackled to the beds posts, and night after night the acrid bile splashing at the back of my throat left me gagging as I aspirated lungful’s of vomit. Sebastian’s anger rose to rage, rutting and grunting on top of me, but never quite erect enough to penetrate much more than the tip of the tip.

  So, like any self respecting insane fucking pervert would do, he opted to graduate to using objects, the more odd or questionable the apparatus, the more painful, and the more painful, the more wicked the gleam in his eye became.

  I would like to take a moment for you to appreciate exactly what it is I am doing for your beloved Heather, or Mac. You see, while Inspector Gadget here plugs in, what I can tell from my place shackled on the bed, an inch and a half in diameter curling iron before adjusting its settings and placing it on the bedside table, Mac is tucked tightly in the dark corners of my consciousness, drunk off her ass from shooting tequila I haven’t a clue where she got it from, and clumsily singing The Cure’s “Pictures of You”.

  I know what’s about to go down and I’ve calculated a rough estimate of how much time I have before it occurs. Your standard curling iron takes roughly thirty seconds to reach the temperature needed to burn blisters into the epidermal layer until it melts away to the dermal layer of skin. I’m hoping that once the searing metal reaches the dermal layer whatever nerve endings involved will be fucked up beyond all reason and the pain will subside…somewhat.

  I briefly wonder how much longer I’ll continue putting so much stock in my well laid out plans, especially when they fall apart because someone has changed the game I’m stuck in.

  Any and all wondering thoughts cease mid process, a blood curdling scream tears its way from my throat at the same time the blistering red-hot curling iron coated with equally hot lubrication is shoved to it’s handle inside me. Then, for what I can only assume, shits and giggles, Sebastian squeezes the handle, opening and closing the rod of fire while its still inside me. My screams are so brutal they strip away the membranes covering my esophagus until the metallic taste of blood mixes with the spit I’m spewing with every fucking cuss word known to mankind at the sick demented bastard leaning over me with a sardonic smirk across his face as he repeatedly rams the curling iron open then closed inside first one hole, before ramming the motherfucker up the other hole.

  You aren’t in a state of mind where time is measurable when your body is withstanding torture of this magnitude. As far as I’m concerned, I was raped with a hot curling iron for seventy-six years before he releases my bleeding wrists and ankl
es where the skin had been ripped from the bone from the rusty shackles. When he walks away dropping the rod of hell on the floor, blood, along with God only knows what other types of body fluids and tissue cover his sleeve up to the elbow of his once crisp, stark white dress shirt.

  He wipes his hands on the front of his dress slacks before unbuttoning them and pulling his flaccid dick out. And while stroking it with one hand he grabs the video camera with the other before making his way to the door connecting our conjoined rooms. Before closing the door behind him he cackles and rattles some bat shit crazy, manic bi-polar shit over his shoulder that falls on deaf ears.

  Pain, unlike anything I’ve ever felt, rolls through me, over and over causing me to shudder down to the marrow of my bones. I can’t seem to catch my breath and the longer I lie here staring at the back of my eyelids, the more intense the convulsions rack through me. I force my eyelids to open and as my head lulls to the side, my eyes land on the strap of my Louis Vuitton bag poking out from beneath the taller bureau. I’m sure when you see a Louis Vuitton bag, it differs greatly from when I do. You probably do one of two things, wonder if its authentic, or you dub it a like or a dislike.

  See, when my eyes land on my Louis Vuitton bag, it spurs my fight or flight instinct, releasing a surge of adrenaline coursing through me that begins to propel my thoughts of escape to run wild, while ebbing the painful agony I writhed in moments before.

  Mac is drunkenly shaking her head at me from a dark corner, mouthing ‘No.’. With my eyes glued on my bag but only really seeing Mac, my determination flares to life and I shove my weight off the mattress using first my elbows, then the heel of my hands. I lift my bottom clear off the bed and when my feet touch the cold hardwood floor, a gush of warmth pours from between my legs and pools around my feet.

  I do not look down. I do not attempt to clean myself up. My fingers grasp the strap of my bag and from the bowels of Hell my will thrives and gains momentum, carrying me though the halls of the house, down the main stairwell, until I’m standing in front of the door leading to the garage in the kitchen.